Four Seasons
by Echo-AU
Summary: A life time of Swan Queen set in four seasons.


**Disclaimer: I own nothing no matter how much I wish I did. I just took them out of the cupboard to play.**

**A/N: Many thanks to my beta, Jo, who has done fantastic work making sure this story is good enough to see the light of day :)**

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**SPRING**

It's spring when I first meet her; her blonde hair sweeping around her face as the breeze catches it, toys with it, throws it back in to the eddies before pulling at it once more, caressing her skin. Her face is alight with joy, a radiating beacon of hope in this little faire in this little town. She's eating a bag of cotton candy, pink, it seems like the wrong colour for her - or maybe it's the right one. It reminds me of innocence, of something long forgotten; and she licks the sugar from her fingers as if she's savouring a delicacy. Maybe she is, maybe the delight upon her face is playing for the first time and I wonder if mine is doing the same.

My mind reels as she turns cool green eyes in my direction; a deer in the headlights that is her gaze. What do I say? She walks over to me and I wait - wait for the barrage of questions, of accusations, of all the things with which I have been raised. _No one will care for you, Regina, not the way I do. I'm your mother_. I have stared too long at this carefree spirit, wanting to slake my thirst for normality, for freedom. And so I raise my armour, my walls of protection and wait for the first blow, wait to be ridiculed.

"Do you want some?" Is all I hear and she's offering me her cotton candy; there's a slight tilt to her head as she asks and the breeze has stilled its incessant playing. Her hair falls about her shoulders and she smiles, the bag of candy still held out in my direction. I look to my left and right, try to discern if she is actually talking to me or if, by chance, there is someone nearby; but I am alone, no one is near me. No one is ever near me.

Tentatively I take some and I see her wait with anticipation as I bring it to my lips. It's pink; I would not have chosen this colour. The sugary sweetness sticks to my teeth and my tongue, sticks to my fingers and I lick them clean. She laughs and for a moment I feel the trap close around me, the offering of friendship only to be ripped away. It is a cruel trick and I should have been prepared. But before I can pull back she has replaced the offer of her bag of cotton candy with her hand; porcelain white skin outstretched to me. _Never trust a hand freely given, Regina, for they will slap you with the other when you least expect_. I take her hand, slipping mine in to the warm clasp of her own; the stark contrast of olive skin against her pale white not lost on me. It feels like home; not my home, but how I wish it could be, how maybe it once was.

She laughs again and the breeze once more pulls at her hair - she is like a forest sprite, so carefree and full of boundless energy, of life. She tugs on my hand and I find myself unable to do anything other than follow, unwilling to change our direction. I let her lead the way, her presence is all too familiar and all too foreign. Have we danced this dance before? I wonder if maybe we have done this in a time long forgotten by all but the longest living; perhaps those beyond the veil have seen us once before.

She wins me a toy in an apple bobbing contest; it is a small, stuffed bear that looks like it has been travelling with the faire for as long as the faire has been in operation. There is dust ingrained upon its furry head, its glass beaded eyes scratched with neglect at each set up and pull down this carnival has been through. She hands it proudly to me and it becomes my most treasured possession. I name him 'Bear' and she laughs again, the sound like the first chords of a symphony and my heart lifts, waiting to hear the crescendo. But it remains light to my ears and I slip my hand back in hers without waiting to be offered; her fingers thread through mine.

The day turns to evening and the lights of the faire flash around us; her blonde hair sparks red and green as it reflects the hotdog stand's neon signage. We eat in silence as I put Bear down beside me, she offers me some of her lemonade. There is a faint chill in the air as if the last vestiges of winter are clinging desperately to their delicate finger hold; unwilling to release their claim upon the earth. An involuntary shiver runs down my spine and I hug my knees to my chest; without a word I feel her warm jacket around my shoulders.

"Won't you be cold?" I ask, and am left to wonder as she wordlessly shakes her head, turning towards the empty oval at the edge of the faire grounds. She stretches her hand out to meet mine, and as I slip my hand in her now familiar grasp I am pulled to my feet and tugged along.

We find a spot on a small hill, the stars alight in the heavens above us and I feel her wrap an arm around my waist, her head resting upon my shoulder. _Love is a weakness, Regina_. The sprite at my side sighs softly as I put my arm around her shoulder and I feel as if there is something I should understand, something important, but it is beyond my grasp. Maybe in time I will know what it was that I should take from this.

Everyone has converged to the outskirts of the field before us, but we hold tight to our private corner of the universe. The air is filled with 'oohs' and 'aahs' as the fireworks are set; colours flash across her face and I see she has eyes only for me. I could drink in the sight for an eternity; perhaps I already have - the gods have not been above having a hand in the affairs of humans. Her lips against mine are warm and soft, they yield as I taste her; lemonade and ketchup. I wonder what she tastes of me - do I also taste of lemonade? The final cracks of fireworks drown out the voices of the crowd as our world is lit in blue and red and green and orange; a perfect blending of colours on a perfect spring night. The fingers of my free hand have entwined themselves in her long, blonde hair; the breeze has allowed me this time to play unhindered.

I know she needs to leave as she unthreads her fingers from my own, as her eyes glass over with suppressed tears. It's time and maybe we have danced this dance before and so maybe we will again - another spring night, another spring day. I slide my arms out of her jacket and return it to her; her sad smile mirrors my own as she pulls it over her shoulders. She moves away and turns from me as the crowd begins to disperse, the show is over for another night.

"What is your name?" I call out to her retreating form.

"Emma," she replies and I close my eyes, savouring the taste of her name upon my tongue as I roll it in my mouth. When again I open my eyes, she has been engulfed by the families leaving the faire; their smiling faces testament to another successful carnival. I swallow the lump in my throat and head back to another day; the grass giving way to dirt as I exit the faire grounds. Dust swirls around my feet as I trudge my way along, an emptiness of home and heart that I cannot fathom.

As I reach the parking lot I realize I have lost Bear.

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**SUMMER**

It's summer when I meet her again, years later. The weather has changed and there is a fire in her eyes, in her belly; a blazing trail that leaves me yearning. There is the undeniability of change and I wonder if she sees the same in me; a fire raging or embers burning low. I never tell her that I returned to the faire, year after year, never tell her I bought pink cotton candy and lemonade or watched the fireworks on our hill. I think maybe that was a place and time we can never get back, when things were simpler, when our lives were simpler.

She comes to me at night sometimes, under the cover of darkness and away from prying eyes; away from judgement and ridicule and I find I understand. I have always understood. There will always be those who want to tear us down, to see us flayed and vulnerable and weak; I offer her a drink of apple cider but she insists on something stronger. She always does. So I get her a glass of my very best whiskey and cringe as she downs it in one go - I keep telling myself to buy the cheap stuff for nights such as these, but I can't bring myself to do so. I sip at my cider and watch her as she paces; she is a panther caged, her nervous energy radiates from every fibre in her being. I wait to hear her laugh, I wait to see the delight play across her features; I have been waiting ever since she blew in to town like a summer tornado. Every time she comes to me I wait some more.

When her energy has finally reached its peak she descends upon me, lips and teeth and tongue crashing; she demands entrance and I yield before her. Her hands play against my skin, rough and hard, and I look for the tenderness of the forest sprite in her cool green eyes. I am dismayed to find a hardened warrior returning my gaze; I fix my own in a mirror image. I surrender to her questing hands, her questing mouth - a supplication I give to no one, no one save for Emma. I offer her my strength as I offer her my body and she takes both without hesitation.

She marks me with her mouth as I feel her brand my soul once more, a painful brand that may never heal, may never be soothed. I offer a prayer to the gods that perhaps one day it will. My body is laid bare before her and she eyes me hungrily, predatorily, and I know she needs this; I have been there, I have stood on that same edge and stared in to the abyss. I search her eyes for my springtime Emma and find her gone; permanent vacation or temporary absence I do not know. I pretend not to notice.

She pushes her fingers deep inside me and watches closely for any reaction; I give her what she needs and pull her closer. I tell her I want her and I do, there are no falsehoods in my words - no matter how much I wish it were so. Her fingers move to their own rhythm, beating out their own pace inside me; it is a slow torture of the worst kind. I remember threading my fingers through those in a time long forgotten. At least, perhaps, forgotten by the blonde who stares at me and licks her lips; I can never forget my forest sprite and so I close my eyes. I feel my Emma of old on my body, hand splayed out over my stomach as three of her fingers are buried knuckle deep inside me; it is her name I call as I crest and fall. I am unsurprised that neither Emma is there to catch me.

She pulls me to the floor, to the rug before the unlit fireplace and I wonder at how unnatural this romantic setting is; I wonder if I can believe the lie. Her pants are gone but she leaves her tank top on, she is never more vulnerable than necessity would dictate and I wonder what ever happened to my sprite. She straddles her legs over me, grinds against me and rolls her hips; I raise my hands to guide her, but she pushes me away.

Her movements are harsh and she grips my shoulders in a bruising grasp; I cannot hide the flash of pain across my face as her nails bite in to my skin, but her eyes are closed and she does not see. I notice her lips moving and realize she is speaking, so softly, and I strain to hear. I raise up on my elbows slightly and if she has noticed it is beneath her concern, she continues as if I hadn't moved. Leaning in I listen, the barely discernable mantra playing across her kiss-swollen lips.

"Love me," she pleads and it's so quiet I doubt she knows she asking, doubt her conscious mind realizes her subconscious has taken control.

She will never know she asked, never know at this moment I have already succumbed to the knowledge that I will never love another. Eventually her movements cease and her vice-like grip on my shoulders loosen; she is puzzled as she looks at me and I feel her thumb trace lightly across my cheek, wiping away a tear that has escaped. It is for these precious moments when her guard is down that I hold hope that my springtime Emma may come back; her hand moulds to my cheek and I can't help but lean in to it, kissing her palm.

She moves down to capture my lips and I allow myself this small heartbeat in the space of time to slip my fingers through honey blonde hair; to remember lemonade and ketchup. But all too soon the moment has passed and she is moving to pull her jeans on, to push her arms through the sleeves of her jacket. I watch her movements but I don't get up, that isn't what I do. Tenderly I rub at the sore spot on my shoulder and wince, hissing at the pain as it shoots through me. I draw back my fingers and notice faint traces of blood as I hear my front door close, a car engine starts moments later.

Resigned to the inevitable I gather my clothes and swallow the last of my cider; it's late and I want a bath, I want to soak my aches away. Maybe we have been through this all before, for the life of me I can think of no other reason I would agree. Perhaps we are two halves of the same whole, broken and damaged and discarded; my springtime Emma rescued me once and so I hold on to a tiny thread of hope that I can do the same.

Until then, I wait.

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**AUTUMN**

The leaves change colour from their vibrant greens to bright yellow and red before descending to the cold, hard ground beneath. I sip on lemonade as I gaze out at the trees in my backyard; my son and his wife are here with their young child, a girl, with stunning blonde locks and a mischievous smile. Together they play on the swing set I bought; it is a beautiful sight and I find myself becoming sentimental. Without hesitation I feel fingers thread through my own and I look down at our hands, the olive skin in stark contrast to porcelain white, and I smile. Lifting our hands I place a soft kiss to pale skin, the warmth palpable under my lips.

Years of fighting and fucking and hurting and it all seems to melt away with Emma at my side. I look up and catch a glimpse in cool green eyes and I see a time when my forest sprite was dancing under bright stars, delight radiating out, our son in her arms. Here and now I would trade none of the heartache if it meant losing all we had gained, her brand still burned upon my soul as mine is upon her own. Together we watch our family in the waning light of an autumn afternoon.

All too soon it is time to go inside; Emma and I busy ourselves in the kitchen as we ready dinner for the family. We work quickly and efficiently, we have done this side by side for more years than we can count; we complement each other perfectly. There is lively chatter coming from the dinner table and it isn't long before we serve up an easy meal of chicken and mushroom carbonara over fettuccine. I lean back in my chair and watch as my family talks, a smile spreading across my face as I feel a familiar hand on my leg, squeezing it in reassurance. It is these moments that etch themselves in my mind's eye; I shall never forget the battles fought to get our family to this place of ease, of trust and love. Never shall I take them for granted.

The talk is upbeat and lasts well in to the night, young Amelia having been put to bed hours prior, doing her best to stay awake as long as she could. Henry and Ava eventually follow suit, kissing us both on the cheek goodnight. Tomorrow will be a long day with sad farewells as they drive back to Boston; we treasure all the time we get with family now. We take ourselves to the living room and Emma leans against me on the couch as I thread my fingers through her hair. To me, she is still as perfect as the day I met her although I feel the weight of the years creeping up on myself.

Idly I reach over to the small table beside the couch, taking the small bag that is on it and offering it to my forest sprite. I hear her soft giggle as she reaches for pink cotton candy and I know I shall never tire of that sound, not as long as there is breath within my body. It is with some surprise that she takes the bag from my hand and puts it on the table nearest to us; she stands up and offers her hand to me once more. I can't help but smile at the small gold band that adorns her finger as I slip my hand within her own. She pulls me up from the couch and we move away from the table; when I look in her eyes I see my springtime Emma.

She hums softly as she pulls me close to her, lays her head on my shoulder as I feel her arms slide around my waist. With tenderness I drape my arms over her shoulders and feel her relax in contentment; it has taken us much to get here. Slowly we sway together to a tune only Emma knows, dancing barefoot in our living room; I wonder if we've danced this dance before. The thick plush of the rug beneath my feet is soothing and it isn't long before I am drifting to a place beyond time, where my universe is brought down to encompass Emma and myself - entwined with each other for eternity.

With a gentleness I have come to crave she lays me down on the rug before the fireplace; when I search her eyes I see tenderness and unfathomable depths of love - I know mine are a mirror of the same. As her lips seek out mine, neither of us push for dominance but revel in each other's taste; truly I could love no other. Lips and teeth and tongue bombard my senses, sending me in to overdrive; she is skilful and attentive and I weave my fingers through her honey blonde hair. My body trembles with every feather light touch, with every soft caress and I can't help the low moan that escapes my lips.

She leans up and swallows the rest of my moans, her kisses so filled with love I feel a fire burning low within my belly. She lifts my leg around her waist, joining us at our cores as she begins to slowly roll her hips against me. When I look at her I know this is my Emma and for that I am forever grateful; we have been through a storm and weathered it. As we tumble in to ecstasy she is there to catch me, and I am there for her.

We lay on the plush pile rug, a sweaty tangle of limbs, as our ragged breaths became steady; I trace lightly over her gold band and remember back to our wedding day. Tears prick at my eyes and escape before I have a chance to hold them back; Emma wipes them away, kissing my eyes before wrapping her arms around me, my head laying against her chest. This, I know, is home.

It is some time later that I feel a dull ache in my joints from having fallen asleep on the floor; gone, truly, are the days of my youth when Emma and I would fall asleep on this very rug before a roaring fire, only to wake again to the heat of passion. Slowly I stand up, feeling Emma's eyes upon me - without hesitation I offer her my hand and porcelain white mixes with olive. I pull her up towards me and kiss her once more, thankful to the gods for answering my prayers. Together we make our way to the bedroom, content to be with each other, to know that no other two in the world share what we have.

Outside the wind picks up and I know tomorrow the ground will be covered in yellow, red and brown leaves; the trees will be a stark remnant of what they were today. Tomorrow they will be stripped bare and all but lifeless, awaiting the coming winter which will lead, full circle, into a new spring.

But until then, the trees will wait.

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**WINTER**

Winter approached with a vengeance and its icy cold tendrils have woven their way in to my body and are currently holding on to my spine. I feel them moving their way up towards my mind and I know it's just a matter of time.

Today is our wedding anniversary and my fingers absently go to my own wedding band, tracing lightly over the warm, gold metal. Gods know it's not this small band of metal that binds me to Emma's soul, I gave that to her the night she kissed me upon the small hill, fireworks shooting in the background. My springtime Emma, my forest sprite, my one true love. She is known by many names to me in this life and I wonder by how many more in other lives; such a tale as we have created transcends the boundaries of life and death.

The day is cold and overcast, but I am thankful the snow is holding off - my joints just aren't as equipped for the cold climate as once they were. I shiver involuntarily at the cold and pull Emma's jacket closer around my shoulders. I have bought pink cotton candy and lemonade, a silly reminder of how we once were, when youthful exuberance led to one of the greatest love affairs history could offer; Orpheus and Eurydice could not hold a candle to what we have. If need be I, too, would willing travel through the gates of the underworld and plead with Hades himself to release her - but unlike Orpheus I would be sure to wait until we both were clear of the underworld before turning to see her; I would not be as foolish as he, I would not lose Emma for eternity. I am thankful, however, that I do not need to be quite so daring.

It's funny the things one remembers upon their anniversary; I remember the day my springtime Emma finally returned, when she allowed our love to blossom as it should have done all those years before. I remember waking up one morning to the smell of brewing coffee and Emma in the kitchen, padding around in an oversized shirt and nothing else; the feeling of rightness that accompanied having her in my house at that moment has stuck with me through the decades. She truly is the light at the end of my tunnel and I, hers. Perhaps they will write stories of our love one day; the thought makes me grin and I continue to trace the gold band around my finger.

I look up at the trees, all the branches stripped bare of their coverings and I know they are patiently waiting for spring - waiting until they can flare back to life and show the world they were merely sleeping. I smile at them briefly before wondering if anyone caught me doing so, the odd musings of an old lady.

Fifty years of marriage and my love for my forest sprite has only grown, her carefree nature is a constant highlight in my life; her yin to my yang - I wish I had the same capacity for freedom as Emma. I have never grown tired of her radiating happiness, even when her blonde hair turned grey she was more beautiful than ever. I could not say the same for myself, but my Emma - surely the gods broke the mould after making her.

My knees are feeling stiff and the ground here is frosty and hard; the cold is seeping through my pants and another shiver runs down my spine. Henry is waiting by the car, he has already been here to see Emma and he is doing his best to hold his emotions in check around me; I've told him it's alright to cry, but he is a man and he will never let his mother see him so vulnerable. I place the bag of pink cotton candy and bottle of lemonade down on the ground, the small vase is empty in winter time. Silently I kiss my finger tips before placing them against the cold marble, I think this is perhaps the last anniversary we will share in this lifetime.

I push up off the ground, my knees and back creaking in protest and make my way over to our car, to our son. He is worried, as he always is, and wraps his arms around me; I tell him it's alright, but I don't think he understands. We drive back home and Ava is there with Amelia, our home is their home now - although Amelia only visits on holidays when she can spare time away from her studies. I am proud of her and her desire to become a teacher.

I see red rimmed eyes as I enter the house and I'm uncertain why the mood is so sombre. I believe they fear change, fear that something is lost which cannot be recovered; it matters not what I tell them to the contrary. And that, really, is the truth of it all. I have loved a life time with someone I believe, with all my heart, is my soul mate; loved and hurt and struggled and loved some more.

I know Emma and I have danced this dance through countless generations; felt each other's bodies move to their own timeless rhythm. I can feel it in my bones, the thrumming knowledge that Emma and I have known each other for centuries - perhaps as Cleopatra and Mark Antony or Odysseus and Penelope; whatever form we took, I know we found each other. The day I pierce the veil I know Emma will be there waiting - waiting for the spring to come so we can find each other once more, dance together once more, love together once more. Then we shall make all new memories and be certain that our lives have been brought together in another time and another place; an intrinsic knowledge that will drive us. Until then I bare out the remaining winter with our family and their love; and I wait to start our dance again.

I await the coming of the spring.


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